Chapter Notes:The rewrite of Chapter Five has grown into something far greater than I originally anticipated. What started as a simple revision has now expanded into a sprawling effort that could easily surpass fifteen thousand words. Given the sheer scale of the story I'm telling, I realized that breaking the chapter into two parts wouldn't suffice—this rewrite will now be presented in three parts.
Initially, I had no intention of creating multi-part chapters away from the main focus of the story, but as the narrative unfolds, it has become clear that this approach is necessary to do justice to the journey of House Tyrell.
I want to take a moment to thank those who pointed out the inconsistencies in my original version. Your keen observations have driven me to dig deeper into the heart of this tale, and I hope these rewrites live up to your expectations.
Oldtown
The Reach, once the jewel of Westeros, was now a ghost of its former self. The fields of golden wheat that had once stretched endlessly beneath the summer sun stood barren, choked with weeds and salted earth. Orchards that had once burst with the sweet abundance of apples and peaches lay untended, their twisted branches heavy with rot. The rivers that once carried barges laden with wine and grain flowed sluggishly now, clogged with debris from war and neglect.
The Second Field of Fire, as the soldiers had come to call it, had not just shattered armies—it had shattered lives. Charred bodies lay in heaps upon the blackened soil, burned so completely that flesh and armor fused together in grotesque, unrecognizable forms. The air still carried the acrid stench of fire and blood, lingering like a specter that would not be banished. What remained of Highgarden's famed wealth—its gold, its silks, its once-proud banners—had melted into unrecognizable slag. The foolish Targaryen queen should have preserved it, but in her wrath, she had burned all in her path.
And now, winter was coming, as the Starks so often said. It would be a cruel one.
Willas Tyrell stood upon the high balcony of the Hightower in Oldtown, his eyes fixed on the distant horizon where the sun bled into the sea. The salty breeze tugged at his cloak, the green and gold now muted and dull, much like the fortunes of his house. Below, the harbor bustled with grim purpose—Redwyne ships offloading what food and supplies they could spare, barrels of grain hoarded in secret, jewels carefully squirreled away before Highgarden's fall. But it would not be enough. Not for long.
He sighed, leaning heavily on the silver head of his cane, shaped in the form of a rose—a cruel reminder of what was lost. His leg ached dully, a familiar companion now, but the pain in his chest was far worse. Highgarden, the heart of the Reach, was gone.
The betrayal of House Tarly had been swift and merciless. Highgarden had fallen to treachery most foul. Randyll Tarly, once the sword and shield of the Reach, had turned his blade against his liege lords, seizing the castle under the golden lion's banner. There had been resistance—Lady Alerie Tyrell had fought with the desperation of a lioness defending her cubs. The stories haunted him still: his mother, standing alone in the great hall, cutting down a Lannister knight and a Tarly soldier before she was overwhelmed, dragged down into the dirt like a common brigand.
Her body was hewn as she lay, before it was tended...and placed in the family plot.
They maintained a small garrison for now at Highgarden...for now, while the reconstruction was underway.
And so, House Tyrell had been uprooted.
Garlan's voice broke his reverie. "We should have marched the moment Highgarden fell."
Willas turned to his younger brother, who stood clad in his riding leathers, his sword belt sitting low on his hips, ever the warrior. There was frustration in his eyes, the fire of a man born for action yet forced into idleness. Garlan had spent the past year riding to and fro across the Reach, bringing rebellious lords to heel, yet their grip remained tenuous.
"We did march," Willas said evenly. " Yet winter nips at our heels. The Reach is a garden plundered to its roots. What do you suggest we fight with? Starvation?"
Garlan scowled. "Paxtor Redwyne's fleet grows fat with Arbor Gold while our people starve. We should have forced his hand by now. The other lords" Garlan spat" horde their bounty starving half of our people"
"We will," Willas assured him, though doubt gnawed at the edges of his mind. "But not yet." He turned his gaze back to the sea. "We have shifted to survival, Garlan. Winter is near. For now, I will play my part here, in Oldtown. You will ensure no more lords fancy themselves kings in our absence. Those that have forgotten their oaths will pay."
Garlan sighed and ran a hand through his auburn hair. "And what of King's Landing? You cannot ignore it forever. This Bran Stark sits the throne now, and soon enough, he'll come calling."
Willas's fingers tightened around his cane. The Dragon Queen's demands had been met with fire, her summons to kneel tossed into the brazier without a second thought. But now came another. The new king, the boy who saw everything and said little.
"I'll answer when it suits me," Willas said at last. "They want our grain, our gold, our loyalty... all in exchange for another king who knows nothing of the Reach."
It was weeks before their journey would commence. The journey had been long and arduous, stretching across the breadth of the Reach and beyond, but the weariness that clung to their bones was as nothing compared to the sight that awaited them as they neared Aegon's landing site.
A year had passed since the Dragon Queen's wrath had descended upon the capital, yet the ruin she had left in her wake had not been swept away by time. If anything, it had only deepened. The earth itself seemed wounded, scarred and blackened, its wounds festering beneath an indifferent sky. No birds sang, no green shoots emerged from the scorched soil; only the skeletal remains of once-proud trees stood like sentinels along the cracked and broken roads.
When the wheelhouse finally creaked to a halt atop a rise overlooking the city, Garlan's voice came, low and grim.
"Brother... you need to see this."
Willas descended carefully, leaning heavily on his cane, his injured leg stiff from the long journey. As he reached the crest of the hill, his breath caught in his throat.
King's Landing—once a teeming hive of life, squalor, and grandeur—was now but a corpse laid bare to the elements. The Red Keep, that proud bastion of Targaryen rule, stood as little more than a skeletal ruin, its towers shattered, its once-mighty walls blackened by fire. The rains had long since washed away the thick ash that had blanketed the city, but what remained was somehow worse. The streets, once bustling with the chaotic energy of merchants and beggars, nobles and thieves, were little more than lifeless corridors of broken stone and fallen timber. Charred beams jutted skyward like the ribs of a fallen beast, and the facades of buildings sagged inward, hollowed and skeletal, their blackened bones groaning in the breeze.
Ghosts lingered here.
Smoke still curled from the deepest parts of the ruin, where pockets of smoldering embers clung stubbornly to life in the wreckage, as though the city itself refused to admit it was dead. The acrid scent of old fire and decay lingered in the air, mixed with the faint brine of the sea beyond.
Leonette, stepping carefully from the wheelhouse, took one look at the desolation before them and turned away, pressing a trembling hand to her mouth. Her delicate frame trembled as she retched violently, her swollen belly rising and falling with each shuddering breath.
Edric Fossoway, riding beside them, sat rigid in his saddle. His youthful face, once so full of eager bravado, was drained of color. His knuckles turned white against the reins as his wide eyes drank in the sight before him.
"Seven save us," he whispered, barely above a breath. "How could anyone live through this?"
"They didn't," Willas replied, his voice cold, distant. He surveyed the ruin with an analytical eye, though beneath the surface, his heart was heavy with the weight of it. "The Targaryens have always loved their fire. They say the gods flip a coin with their kind... too often, it lands on madness."
Garlan rode up beside them, his brow furrowed in quiet fury. His keen eyes, trained for the battlefield, swept across the city like a scout assessing a field before battle. "The rumors didn't do it justice," he murmured. "This isn't war. This... this is annihilation."
They descended the hill in silence, the air thick with the whisper of the wind through hollowed streets. The distant echo of hooves against stone was the only sound as they rode past what remained of King's Landing.
Where once the streets had been choked with the stink of humanity—sweat, refuse, the mingled scent of bread and rotting fish—now there was only the heavy scent of damp stone and old smoke. Skeletons, half-buried beneath collapsed buildings, jutted out at odd angles—mute remnants of those who had been unable to flee the inferno. Here and there, small figures moved through the wreckage—scavengers picking over the bones of the dead city, their hollow faces like specters of the past. A ragged child, barely more than skin and bone, clutched a burnt scrap of cloth and watched them pass with dull, haunted eyes.
Willas's grip on his cane tightened. This was not a city in ruin; this was a city in mourning.
"These people," Leonette murmured, her voice hoarse from the effort of holding back tears. "Why are they still here?"
Willas's expression darkened. "Because they have nowhere else to go."
The further they rode into the city, the more the weight of it pressed upon them. Buildings that had once stood for centuries, weathering war and rebellion, now lay in heaps of scorched rubble. The Sept of Baelor was no more, its mighty bell tower collapsed, its once-beautiful stained glass shattered and ground into dust, the testament to the mad Lion Queen. The great Dragon Gate had been reduced to little more than rubble, the iron portcullis twisted like melted wax beneath the dragon's wrath.
They passed the remnants of Flea Bottom, now nothing more than a sprawling graveyard of collapsed hovels and skeletal remains. The smell of decay still clung to the place, and within the wreckage, Willas could see figures moving—starving wretches, no more than skin and bones, their eyes hollow with despair.
Garlan scowled. "This place should have been abandoned. Why do they linger?"
"Because hope dies harder than flesh," Willas murmured.
At last, they reached the hulking ruins of the Dragonpit.
The ruined Dragonpit stretched around them like the skeletal remains of a long-dead giant. The crumbling arches and fractured pillars loomed high overhead, casting jagged shadows that danced in the flickering torchlight. A gust of wind whistled through the gaps in the stone, carrying with it the scent of damp ash and decay—a lingering echo of the Dragon Queen's wrath and ages past. Still, it was the one bastion of the city standing, in greater shape than even the Red Keep.
Willas Tyrell stood at the center of it all, his cane pressed firmly into the cracked stone beneath him, his leg stiff from the journey and the weight of the moment. At his side, Garlan loomed, his face set in hard lines, his hand resting dangerously close to his sword hilt. Behind them, Leonette stood with quiet dignity, her golden hair falling in soft waves over the delicate swell of her belly, though her eyes flickered with barely concealed worry. Young Edric Fossoway, still too green for such affairs, watched with wide, fearful eyes.
Before them sat Bran Stark, the King of the Six Kingdoms, his unseeing eyes locked upon them with an unsettling stillness. Beside him, Tyrion Lannister, his mismatched eyes filled with cold amusement, fingers drumming against the arm of his seat. Sansa Stark sat to Bran's left, regal and composed, her auburn hair catching the faint glow of the torches. Ser Brienne of Tarth, stern and watchful, stood like a looming sentinel behind them, her hand resting lightly upon her sword hilt.
The hall was filled with nobles and lords from across the realm—some indifferent, some gloating, and a rare few sympathetic. Edmure Tully, seated awkwardly among them, shifted in his chair, looking uncomfortable as the tension in the chamber thickened.
Brienne's voice cut through the heavy silence.
"It is customary to kneel before the king."
Willas's expression remained impassive, though a flicker of anger passed through his eyes. He saw the spearmen lining the walls, their armor glinting faintly in the dim light. Garlan stirred beside him, but Willas placed a steadying hand on his arm before lowering himself onto one knee with quiet dignity, his cane trembling slightly beneath his grip.
"Your Grace," he said, his voice level but firm. "House Tyrell stands before you in loyalty. The Reach remains steadfast, though we have suffered greatly. The betrayal of House Tarly has cost us dearly. My mother and grandmother paid for their devotion with their lives."
Bran's expression did not change. His voice, distant and slow, carried across the hall with an eerie finality.
"You are not here to offer your loyalty, Lord Tyrell. You are here to face judgment."
A murmur rippled through the crowd, and Willas stiffened. He could feel Leonette's hand tighten around Edric's shoulder behind him.
"Judgment?" Willas's voice remained calm, but the tension in his jaw betrayed him. "Your Grace, the Reach feeds the realm. Without us, the kingdoms starve. Would you cast us aside so easily?"
Tyrion's smirk deepened. "Oh, how the mighty have fallen," he mused. "Tell me, Lord Willas, who clung to power more—House Lannister or House Tyrell?" He leaned forward, his voice honeyed but biting. "We may have lost our grasp in the end, but at least we held it firm. Your family, on the other hand... well, I've seen autumn leaves that cling to trees with more conviction."
Willas's brow furrowed, and he met Tyrion's gaze with an icy stare. "And what of House Lannister, my lord? Clutching to power with bloody fingers, and slaughtering guests at their own wedding?" His voice sharpened. "If we shifted with the winds, the Lannisters built castles of sand and prayed the tide never came."
Tyrion's lips curled. "And yet, here we both stand in the ruins of a kingdom your house helped destroy. I suppose that means neither of us were very good at the game."
Willas took a measured breath. "House Tyrell did what was necessary to survive," he countered. "Your family, however, tore itself apart. A father murdered by his son, a sister whose hunger for power led to her own death. You speak of loyalty, but you know little of it."
Before Tyrion could respond, Sansa's voice cut through the room like the crack of ice.
"House Tyrell used everyone," she said, her blue eyes locked onto Willas. "Even if I cared for Margaery, I was still a piece on your grandmother's board. She smiled, she laughed, but behind it all, she played her games, as did the rest of you." Her expression was cold, but there was a trace of something deeper—hurt, betrayal, she could never know now if she were a pawn of Margery, or if they truly were friends and the Tyrell were her salvation.
Garlan bristled, his voice thick with anger. "And what of the North, my lady? How many houses bled for your family's cause, only to fall in ruin in your crusade.''
Sansa's expression did not waver. "We do what we must to survive, Lord Garlan. The difference is, the North does not forget."
A tense silence settled over the chamber, until Edmure Tully awkwardly cleared his throat and rose to his feet, his voice uncertain but well-meaning. "Your Grace," he said hesitantly, "House Tyrell has always been a pillar of the realm. Surely their contributions cannot be ignored. Highgarden is a seat of great—"
Sansa cut him off with a withering glance. "Enough, Uncle."
Edmure swallowed hard and slowly sank back into his seat, his face burning with embarrassment.
Willas took a deep breath, his heart pounding in his chest. He looked to Garlan, who was practically vibrating with anger. Resistance lingered on the edge of his mind—one final stand. But then he heard the faint shuffle of boots, saw the slow advance of the goldcloaks.
One of them, a grizzled captain with a scar down his cheek, moved closer to Leonette, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. The unspoken threat was clear.
Willas's gaze snapped to Bran, who sat unmoved, his eyes staring through them, as if seeing the end before it had even begun.
"You will leave the Reach behind," Bran said, his voice devoid of warmth. "Or your family will not leave at all."
Leonette's hand flew instinctively to her belly, and Willas felt his fury boil over—but he swallowed it down, bitter and burning. His fingers curled into a fist at his side, his nails biting into his palm. Garlan dared not move for fear of bringing harm to his wife, his unborn child.
Slowly, painfully, Willas lowered his gaze. "House Tyrell... will yield."
A ghost of a smirk touched Tyrion's lips. "Good. It seems even roses know when to wither."
As Willas turned to leave, his voice was low, a promise carried only to Garlan's ears. "This is not the end."
Garlan nodded, his voice barely a whisper. "No. It's just the beginning."
And so, the rose of Highgarden was uprooted. But beneath the soil, the roots remained—deep and waiting.
In the heart of the ruined city, in the heart of a ruined keep, where once kings and queens had walked with proud steps, now there was only silence. The chambers given to House Tyrell were richly adorned but hollow, filled with the ghosts of a realm that had crumbled under the weight of fire and ambition. Fine tapestries still clung stubbornly to the cracked stone walls, their colors faded, their threads fraying, whispering of splendor long past. Candles flickered dimly in their sconces, their wan light pushing against the creeping darkness that seeped through the cracks of the shattered Red Keep. The ever present guards a reminder...that they were not free.
Willas Tyrell sat in stillness at the heavy oak desk, staring out through the open balcony doors, his gaze fixed upon the ruin of King's Landing beyond. The city stretched before him like a broken corpse, its bones laid bare by war and dragonfire. By day, the sun cast harsh light upon the wreckage—blackened spires collapsed in on themselves, streets reduced to rivers of ash, and the once-proud gates, now twisted and shattered. The great dome of the Sept of Baelor had long since crumbled, its mighty bell having fallen into the street below, resting amid a sea of broken stones.
But by night, the ruin took on a darker shape. In the moonless sky, it became a place of ghosts, with every gust of wind stirring up the dust and whispers of the dead. The fires that had once roared with unrelenting fury were now reduced to smoldering embers in the depths of the wreckage, casting an eerie, wavering glow that flickered like dying stars against the shattered skyline.
Willas thought, not for the first time, of stepping beyond the edge of the balcony and letting the ruined city take him. It would be so easy. The pain in his leg, the weight of his family's disgrace, the unbearable knowledge that he had failed them all—he could end it here, let it fall away into the abyss below.
But then his thoughts turned to Garlan, to Leonette, and to Edric. They needed him still, broken though he was. As useless as his body might be, his mind remained his greatest weapon, and he would wield it to shield them, to guide them.
He was lost in these grim musings when a shadow moved against the wall. Willas stiffened, his hand slipping instinctively beneath the folds of his cloak to grasp the small dagger he had kept hidden. He had long expected death to come for him—perhaps a silent hand in the night, a blade slipping through his ribs, punishment for his family's many betrayals.
The balcony door creaked open on rusted hinges, and a whispering breeze carried the faint scent of smoke and wet stone into the chamber. A figure stood framed in the doorway, draped in black from head to toe, a hood drawn low over their face. Only a pair of green eyes shone beneath the shadowed cowl, cold and watchful.
"No need for that, Tyrell," the voice was soft, feminine but firm, like the whisper of steel unsheathed.
Willas studied the figure warily, his grip tightening on the dagger hilt. "Who are you?" he asked, his voice hushed yet steady.
"A friend," the figure replied. "One who wishes to see you and your family live through this night."
There was a long pause, and then she stepped fully into the room. A shaft of moonlight caught upon her braided black hair, which spilled over one shoulder, and the glint of a spear strapped across her back. Her movements were quick, fluid, like a shadow given life.
"If you stay here," she continued, her voice barely more than a whisper, "you will die. All that you hold dear will perish. There is no future for you in Bran Stark's custody. Come now, and quietly."
Willas remained silent for a long moment, weighing her words carefully. If this was treachery, it was a strange and convoluted ploy. If they meant to kill him, it would be easier to do it here, in his sleep, without the theatrics of an escape. He sighed, resignation settling in his bones like a heavy fog.
"I must get my brother, my sister by marriage, and our ward," he said at last, his voice low. "We will not leave without them."
The figure nodded once. "They are being freed even now. We must move."
Willas glanced at the thick rope she had secured to the balcony's edge. The black chasm below stretched endlessly, and he felt the deep throb in his leg, the dull ache of old wounds and wasted years.
"My leg will never tolerate such a descent," he hissed.
The woman turned sharply, her eyes narrowing. "It must," she said without sympathy. "Or you must stay and die. Choose, and quit wasting my time."
For the first time, Willas saw a gleam of iron resolve behind those green eyes, and he knew in that moment she would leave him without hesitation if he faltered. He looked once more at the rope, swallowing his pride and his fear, before setting his jaw.
With slow, deliberate effort, he swung one leg over the edge, gripping the rope tightly with both hands. Pain shot through his muscles as he began his descent, the rough fibers biting into his skin. His arms trembled, and his breath came ragged, but he pressed on, each drop a silent battle against his own weakness.
When his feet touched the stone below, his legs gave way, and he collapsed into the rubble-strewn courtyard, panting and cursing softly. His entire body ached, and his leg throbbed angrily beneath him.
The cloaked figure landed gracefully beside him, barely making a sound. "You can rest when we are free," she murmured. "Come, we must not linger."
Willas forced himself upright, leaning against the broken wall, his heart hammering in his chest. He had no cane now, no support but sheer willpower. The woman's face remained hidden beneath the hood, but there was no mistaking the urgency in her tone.
They moved through the ruined streets like shadows, their footsteps muffled by the thick layers of dust and debris. Each step was a reminder of the destruction that had been wrought upon the city—scorched beams leaning precariously, walls blackened and crumbling, skeletal remains half-buried beneath the rubble, their empty eye sockets staring up at the starless sky.
Ahead, in the darkness, a familiar voice broke through the night.
"Brother!"
Two strong arms enveloped Willas in a tight embrace, and he felt the solid presence of Garlan beside him, his voice thick with relief. "Thank the Seven... I feared I would never see you again."
Leonette stepped forward, her hand cool and comforting upon his shoulder. "You are safe now," she whispered, her eyes brimming with unshed tears.
Edric stood at her side, his youthful face set in grim determination. There was no boyish fear in his gaze now—only the resolve of one who had lost much and refused to lose more.
Willas exhaled shakily, relief warring with the dull ache of his wounds. "Come," he said softly, his voice hoarse. "We are not free yet."
And with that, they slipped into the night, leaving behind the ashes of their past, but carrying with them the thorned promise of their return.
Their silent guide lingered in the shadows, her emerald eyes glinting in the faint moonlight as she surveyed the ruined city beyond. King's Landing lay sprawled before them like a vast and rotting carcass, its once-proud towers and spires now little more than jagged bones against the night sky. From their vantage point near the ruins of the Red Keep, they could see the distant glow of torches flickering like fallen stars, dotting the shattered streets where remnants of the city's defenders clung to duty in futility.
Even now, in the aftermath of war, the city stirred. Goldcloaks, clad in their soot-streaked armor, patrolled the empty streets with sluggish weariness. Here and there, Northmen wrapped in thick furs stood watch in grim silence, their eyes scanning the ruins with practiced suspicion. Westerland soldiers, their crimson cloaks faded and threadbare, guarded the Red Keep's remnants with the stubborn vigilance of men left with little else to cling to.
Yet for all their watchfulness, the city belonged to the dead now.
The shadowed woman—silent, swift, and ever watchful—turned her gaze upward, to the sliver of moon struggling to pierce the drifting clouds. Darkness was their shield, and they would need every ounce of it tonight.
"Come," she whispered, the word barely more than a breath against the wind. "We must make haste."
The Tyrells followed her lead, moving like whispers through the alleys littered with fallen stone and the charred remnants of what once were homes. Willas Tyrell leaned heavily on his brother's arm, each step an agony that burned through his leg, but he bore it without complaint. Garlan walked beside him, ever steady, while Leonette clung tightly to Edric, guiding him over the treacherous rubble with quiet strength.
They wound their way through the broken city until the ruined docks came into view. Once teeming with life, the harbor now lay desolate—the proud ships of merchants and traders reduced to blackened husks, skeletal masts creaking in the wind. Yet amid the ruin, one ship still remained, a small vessel moored at the very edge of the dock, its dark sails barely visible against the restless tide.
Two guards stood watch, their helms dented, their cloaks tattered. One turned sharply at the sound of their approach, raising a hand.
Before his words could carry, a shadow moved behind him—silent as death. The faint whisper of a bowstring thrummed through the air, and an arrow found the soft place beneath his helm, burying deep into his throat.
The second guard spun, his mouth opening in alarm, but another shaft caught him clean in the eye before he could raise a cry. They crumpled soundlessly, their bodies swallowed by the dark.
From the wreckage nearby, more figures emerged—hooded and swift, clad in dark leather and armed with bows and short blades. They were like phantoms against the ruin, moving without sound. Among them, Ser Isaac stood with sword in hand, but it was clear he had not acted alone.
Willas, breathless from both pain and awe, gazed at the newcomers. "Who are they?"
His rescuer did not answer immediately. Instead, she stepped forward, her emerald eyes gleaming beneath her hood. "Your men are safe," she said quietly. "They were held in the lower dungeons beneath the Red Keep. We freed them."
Willas blinked in surprise, scanning the shadows behind her. And then he saw them—his soldiers, ragged but alive, emerging from the darkness. Their eyes were wary, their armor battered, but they stood tall, their loyalty undiminished.
"Ser Bryce?" Willas whispered in disbelief as a familiar face stepped forward.
"Aye, my lord," the knight said gruffly, inclining his head. "We thought all was lost... but they came for us." He nodded toward the cloaked figures, respect clear in his voice.
The hooded woman turned back to Willas. "Your men were loyal to you even in their imprisonment," she said. "See that you are worthy of them."
Before he could respond, she gestured toward the ship. "Now, we must go. East to Braavos. Your destiny lies there."
Willas frowned, shaking his head. "No," he said, his voice tight. "Our home is here. The Reach is our birthright. We can rally the houses—"
Without warning, she stepped close—too close—and Willas felt a chill that had little to do with the night air. Garlan's hand moved instinctively to his sword, but something unseen, something unspoken, stayed him. The woman's presence was not merely that of a warrior; it was something older, something bound by secrets and oaths beyond his understanding.
She leaned in, her voice barely a whisper, but the weight of her words struck him like a hammer to the chest.
"We swear by Earth and Water, stand by Bronze and Iron, endure Ice and Fire."
The words fell into the silence like stones into a still pond, each syllable rippling through the very marrow of his bones. Willas staggered back, his breath caught in his throat. These were ancient words, words nearly lost to time—the oaths of the First Men, the sacred vows whispered by the crannogmen when they bent the knee to House Stark.
His mouth opened, but no sound came.
The shadowed woman watched him with those piercing green eyes, her voice low yet insistent. "You are of Hightower too... they were here before the Andals. You should remember your roots, Tyrell."
Willas swallowed, a flicker of something long-buried stirring within him—pride, shame, defiance. The Hightowers, his mother's blood, traced their lineage to the dawn of days, when the First Men ruled and the land was untamed and free. Before the Tyrells were stewards of Highgarden, before they were ever lords, they too had once stood upon Westeros with the Old Gods watching.
But those days were long gone, buried beneath centuries of Andal rule, beneath golden roses and chivalry.
Willas squared his shoulders, forcing his voice to steady. "The Reach belongs to the roses now, not the ghosts of the past."
A flicker of something—amusement, perhaps—crossed the woman's features beneath her hood. "Even the tallest rose grows from old roots, my lord," she murmured. "Now come. Time is against us. I have words that I was bidden to share with you and you must pay them heed!" She whispers sharply just loud enough for him to hear."
"From golden halls and gardens wide,
Where laughter danced and dreams would bide,
Highgarden stood, so proud, so grand,
A beacon bright across the land.
But petals soft can't hold the storm,
When treachery takes on a form.
With fire and steel, the roots were torn,
And all was left to ash and thorn.
Betrayed, cast out, their banners fell,
The whispers rang, the tolling knell.
No crown to wear, no throne to claim,
Just bitter loss and tarnished name.
Yet roses bloom where none expect,
From ruin's grasp, they recollect.
Though cast away, they shall endure,
With hearts of gold and wills so sure.
The soil remembers what it bore,
And roses thrive forevermore.
Through exile's pain and fortune's test,
The Reach shall see their house redressed.
From ash they rise, from dust they grow,
Their thorns are sharp, their hearts still know,
That time shall bow to those who strive—
The roses bloom, the Tyrells thrive."
She stared at him for the briefest of moments, her emerald eyes glinting like twin stars in the abyss of her hood. Then, with a voice as soft as falling leaves yet edged with quiet authority, she spoke:
"Go, my lord. Find sanctuary in Braavos. You may have lost the game of thrones, but the game of life is still set... and the pieces are moving."
Before Willas could muster a reply, she stepped back into the shrouded night, her form dissolving into the deepest shadows as if she had never been there at all.
Willas swallowed hard, the weight of destiny pressing heavy upon his chest. He forced himself to stand tall, his cane discarded on the balcony far behind. He turned toward the waiting ship where Garlan, Leonette, and Edric stood in solemn silence, their expressions a mixture of exhaustion and quiet hope. With a final glance at the ruin behind him, he nodded.
Heavy were his steps as he ascended the gangplank, the wood creaking beneath his feet. The sails unfurled, dark and silent against the starlit sky, and the ship drifted into the black waters that stretched endlessly beyond the wreckage of King's Landing.
As the city faded into the distance, Willas stood at the stern, his hands clenching the railing with white-knuckled resolve. The Red Keep, once a symbol of power, now lay as a smoldering husk, its towers broken and defeated. Smoke still curled into the sky, a reminder of what had been lost and what had yet to be reclaimed.
His voice, barely above a whisper yet filled with quiet determination, carried over the lapping waves. "We will return... on this, by the Seven and the Old Gods, I swear."
The oath hung in the night air, a vow whispered to the sea and the gods alike. The roses had been uprooted, but roses have thorns. And one day, they would bloom again—stronger, sharper, and ready to reclaim what was theirs.